


Carry On Oneshots

by cirque_de_reves (orphan_account)



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Carry On Scene Rewrites, Implied Smut, M/M, Penny/Simon bromance, SnowBaz, Snowbaz Oneshots, Snowbaz angst, Snowbaz smut, Watford fifth-year, archenemies!...SIKE they're SUPER GAY, simon is an adorable gay virgin, snowbaz fluff, unactualized Snowbaz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 09:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11666559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cirque_de_reves
Summary: Oneshots I've been meaning to write, ranging from holiday dinners at the Grimm-Pitch household before Snowbaz was a thing, to Baz watching Simon sleep in their dorm at Watford (per usual), to our favorite mage and ex-mage angsting over their past and how it's affecting their present (and hopefully future) together. I've gotten quite a start going for myself, but...the headcanons are infinite...(I'll definitely be here for a while.)





	1. Let's Take it Slow

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this will start us off on the right foot...

"Ouch, Baz!"  
"I haven't touched you yet, Simon."  
Soothing fingers, nudging a confused frown into dimples.  
"You just did."  
"And it wasn't so bad, was it?" Breathy words. Genuine ones.  
More fingers.  
A sigh.  
"No..."  
"You decide, then. Put my hands on you. Where do you want my hands?" Flaming skin. Shaky breaths. "It's okay. Baby, it's okay, I'll stop."  
"Don't!"  
"Slower?"  
"I think."  
"You think what?"  
" _Baz_."  
"That's my name."  
An eye-roll.  
"How do you know what to do?"  
A torpid and uncharacteristically merciful smile - a flash of white sharp enough to be inhuman.  
"You mean, how do I know what I want?" Gently, now. Kinder.  
"Yes." Wide eyes, clear and unblinking. Thick and lengthy, pale lashes, like radiant meadow-grass hugging blue water.  
"I didn't." Like coins glinting in a fountain. "Not until I met you."


	2. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my rewrite-sort-of-thing for that scene where they're eating dinner at Baz's house while Simon is staying there for winter break. There wasn't much dialogue in the original, so I figured I'd add some depth and ...sub-story? to it :-) enjoy!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Baz's perspective. (Merry Christmas, everybody)

"So, Simon," my father says, swallowing a chunk of filet mignon, his expression entirely unreadable, "have you ever been to America?" Crowley, Dad, _stop_. My cheeks flush with a slightly-less-pale hue that decorates my face with embarrassment like a little kid's. It's not a _bad_ question, necessarily, but with Simon here I feel so...vulnerable. Anything could set me off. Oh, fuck, anything could set _Simon_ off. Maybe that's what my father is trying to do - I grimace, the ephemeral color draining from my face.  
I look towards Snow. I can tell he's surprised at the attention, though he gets this everywhere. He probably expected to lay low here; I know he still doesn't trust my family. Or me.  
He's sitting next to me tonight, even though there's enough space at this dinner-table to seat an army. I watch him shove a forkful of potatoes in his mouth, and _then_ talk. He's such an idiot. I should be embarrassed of him.  
"Er- once when I was pretty young, before Watford, the system had plans to transfer me to an orphanage in Utah," he glances around, and then continues. It strikes me that he looks like a madman, or a scientist who's accidentally electrocuted himself. He smells like that, too. Like he's burning from the inside out. "...And I was excited, because it was winter, and the only thing I knew about Utah was that they had a lot of snow there, and a lot of skiing. And I had never skied before, but I wanted to. That's really all I remember. That I wanted it to snow." He talks so slowly, like there's a landmine in there somewhere and he's afraid he's going to step on it. "It didn't work out, so I stayed in England. But I read in the papers later that year that it snowed more than it had in a decade."  
I mull over what he said. And I think, _Of course it snowed for you, Simon. I bet all it takes is one look at you for it to storm down from the heavens. Crowley, if I hadn't already nosedived into hell I'd fall from grace just from the sound of your voice_.  
And then I take a sip of water and focus on how I can feel it sloshing down my throat, to clear my head. But the image is still there: young Simon, poised within a downpour of fluffy white, his arms outstretched, all frizzy unkempt curls, smiling ear to ear like the maniac that he was. That he _is_.  
Impulsively, and just as maniacally, I smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (young Simon makes me painfully sentimental and a little tearful, I'll admit.)


	3. Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, there's probably going to be a lot of fluff and fluffy smut. Starting now. I'm unashamed. (Who can blame me?) From Simon's perspective.

I stretch my fingers over his chest until I could probably claw his heart out, if I wanted to. He'd probably be into that, the sick bastard. I love him.   
I didn't know Baz was a virgin, but it's easy to tell. Before, I'd assumed that he was the type to have six girls on his arm, always, and that I just never saw them. That maybe he had a girlfriend back home or something. There was even a time when I thought he could be sleeping with Agatha. (All of this was before I knew he was gay.)  
He groans softly, his head hanging back against the wall and his body slumped into mine and his hair hanging into his eyes and framing his face. Merlin, I love him.   
I pull him to me by the arm I have around his bare waist, and he startles, his eyes widening. I press our lips together, hard, and before I shut my eyes I watch his flutter closed. He's such a ragdoll. Every time I do this he just leans into me and expects me to carry his weight like it's my own. Which it is, of course. And I do.   
I wet his lips with my tongue and his hands come off the wall to hook around my neck and rest over my hipbone just above the elastic of my briefs, and I stop for a moment to catch my breath.   
"You sure about this, Baz?" I rest my forehead against his but don't meet his eyes. I focus on his lips, his collarbone. His ribcage. His jeans. I love him.   
He rolls his eyes. He does that a lot. I ask him not to because it makes me feel like a little kid - or an unsatisfactory waiter, or something - but it's, like, a part of his genetics. "What's there to be sure of? I've been having wet dreams about you since we were twelve," he says, deadpanned.   
I cough. "If I didn't want you as bad as I do right now, I might think that's a bit creepy."   
I see him try to keep a pokerface, but he can't do it. He blushes, and where his face was already warm from my lips it blossoms with color. "You're an idiot, Snow," he says. "Kiss me again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you blushed as much as Baz did.


	4. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's where the angst comes in. This is a bit on the longer side, so you have plenty of time to cry. (I.e., plenty of time to follow in my footsteps)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baz's point of view. He's guilty as fuck for it, but sometimes he can't help wondering how he and Simon are together. They're nothing alike. They don't match anymore.  
> He needs a break. He needs fresh air. He needs magic, to console him, because he doesn't want to wake up Snow. Doesn't want to face him. He's guilty as fuck.  
> He heads outdoors with his head in his hands, and tries to fix himself.

I hate practicing magic when I'm at Simon's, but sometimes I have nightmares. I dream about the way Simon's magic used to be, like a dry old brick well repurposed into a bonfire. The bottomlessness. That thing he would do, where he could just wrap his fingers around my forearm or press them into my sternum and it would just come flowing out. Truckloads of fiery magic, enough to drown me in flames. And Crowley knows I'm fucking flammable.  
...I suppose I'm lucky to have been so good with fire.  
I say that in the past tense so nonchalantly, like I've become Normal too, just like him, and that scares me. That's part of the nightmares. That Simon still has all that jazz, and I've lost mine. That I'm still just a vampire in jeans, toting an omnipotent boyfriend like Toto from _The Wizard of Oz_ , if Toto could give himself dragon wings and a devil's tail just by thinking about it.  
So I'll go out into the hallway outside the bedroom, or past the front door and onto the lawn if I'm feeling especially guilty - and I'll pour embers of magic into the hovery spaces above my palms. I'll watch them flicker, and maybe I'll throw them in smoldering balls as far as I can into the sky. It's such sweet relief, to know that it's still there. My magic. I know I'm selfish, and an asshole, and a horrible boyfriend to Simon. But I couldn't do that to him. I couldn't let him catch me like that, like I'm practically betraying him. I know he misses magic. I would never admit it, but when I'm with him, I miss it too.  
Tonight I guess he must've rolled over in those stained silken pyjamas of mine that he still wears, with my initials embroidered in red along the pants-cuffs, and felt my absence. I don't sense him coming, not like I used to. It used to be that I could feel his presence from between walls, that I could feel the burn of his magic licking up my shins and singeing the ends of my hair even through pillars of plaster and cement and mahogany. He was so powerful.  
Now, I can still tell when he's there, but only because I'm a fucking vampire, and I have this stupid sense of smell. Tonight in particular, and almost always, Simon radiates cedar-wood and bergamot and cinnamon and hot blood and musky morning-breath and dry shampoo. I inhale instinctively before I even see him. I can taste him in the air.  
"Baz? What are you doing out here?" I hear his voice and sigh, closing my fingers around the glow of fire in my hand.  
"I got...claustrophobic."  
He frowns. I watch him run a hand through his pillow-tousled curls out of the corner of my eye. "Nightmares?"  
I don't meet his eyes.  
"C'mon, Baz, I have them too."  
I unfurl my knuckles and hurl a sphere of crackling heat at a tree.  
He pauses. He's probably exhausted. So am I, but sleep won't come to me anytime soon for obvious reasons.  
"Come inside, love, I'll make you some tea." He only calls me that when he's pitying me. I throw another fireball and barely miss the front tire of an unfortunate Sedan.  
I turn towards him. "How can you stand to be around me?"  
I watch his eyes widen. "What the fuck are you talking about, Baz?"  
"It doesn't bother you? To know that you used to have more magic than anyone in existence, and you had to give it up? And then on top of it all, you have to tolerate me, every day of your life, with the irony of my fire-powers and fucking _flammability_? Crowley, Simon, every day I wish that I could push some of my goddamn magic into you, like you used to do for me. I'd just..." I pause, and he steps closer, farther outside and nearer to me, and looks at me; his eyelids sagging and his thick brows arching backwards into some kind of sentimentality. It's really fucking me up. "Just...put my hand...right here..." I sweep my hand down the center of his chest and suspend it gently over his belly. I can feel how soft his skin is underneath the pyjamas. He places his hand over mine and holds us both there. "And...and you could feel it again. And I could feel you again...that strong burning scent, like setting fire to a flower garden..." I trail off. He looks so _sad_.  
When he talks next, it's so quiet I suppose I wouldn't even hear it if my senses weren't so vampirically sharp. Damn him, he's gotten good at that. "Is that what you want, Baz?"  
I'm confused. "Isn't that what _you_ want?"  
He brings his other hand up and brushes a few strands of my hair behind my ear. " _You're_ the only thing I want."  
I close my eyes. "And you're the only thing I've ever wanted."  
He takes the sides of my face in his scratchy palms and kisses me. I savor how sleepy he is. He's not lying to me, and I have no reason to lie to him.  
"C'mere, love, let's go back to bed," he says, and instead of feeling pitied, I feel cured.


	5. Bronze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz can't help himself. Snow is so vulnerable, in sleep. And it's so easy to make believe.  
> It's so easy to stare at him, without him noticing and clenching his fists and glaring back. Baz almost feels trusted.  
> It's so easy to love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Baz. So much. I wish Baz loved Baz. (At least Simon does. Eventually. But not right now, not that he knows of...*sob*)

I sneer at him in the darkness. His bed is so close to mine - I could touch him, if I wanted to. And I want to.  
I could glide the pads of my fingertips across the thin flesh on his wrist, which he has strewn over the bedside like the teenage idiot he is. I _could_.  
I love him most when I'm thirsty, because then there's all kinds of aches in me, and all kinds of unfulfilled needs, and why not want for more?  
(Because love is pain, that's why.)  
I want to kill him. I _should_ want to kill him. There's an entire army of mages and creatures out there (that I'm supposed to be siding with) that would love to see Snow dead.  
But occasionally, I think that I'd like to say goodbye before I stab him. Or really, hello, because we never say anything much to each other.  
I'd kiss his nose, or drag my thumb across his lips and his sharply angled Cupid's bow. I'd gladly twirl one of his curls between my fingers absentmindedly and swallow up all the blue in his eyes. I'd do anything to him, for him. If he wanted me to.  
Which he doesn't.  
I inhale shallowly and get one last good look at his sleepy features and his dangling arm and how I can see a little bit of his bare lower back (Snow sleeps without a shirt; may the gods strike me into the underworld) when I fix my eyes just right, and the mop of bronze coils framing his head like a halo, and I roll over.  
He's an angel, and I'm a demon.  
I shut my eyes tight, and pray for sleep. 


	6. Penny's Gonna Kill Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as the epilogue at the end of Carry On tipped us off, Penny and Simon live together. (I'm not sure how she can stand this - didn't her eight years of rooming with Trixie and her disgustingly sweet infatuation with her girlfriend teach her anything?) So naturally, she doesn't really appreciate it when Simon brings Baz home. Which is a lot. And she especially doesn't appreciate what they often spend their time doing, which I'm sure you can guess at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a long time, Simon thought his death would be quick and painful and probably explosive. He'd go out like an erupting volcano, at the hands of the Humdrum or some dark creature or maybe even Baz. But a lot has changed since then. An angry, frizzy-haired, inhumanly intelligent master-wizard, aka his best friend, aka Penny, is definitely going to kill him slowly.  
> (But judging by the way Baz is making him feel right now, it's totally going to be worth it.)  
> PS: Keep in mind the perspective switches from Simon to Penny.

We stumble haphazardly into the flat. I even knock over a cereal bowl I left on the counter earlier, and Baz calls me by my surname and something muffled but probably offensive. I'm too busy kissing him, clawing at his shoulders and the zipper on his leather jacket. Penny's going to _kill_ us.  
It's chilly. We plummet into each other and huddle like cold penguins, and when we finally get our damned clothes off we spend precious minutes breathing over each other, getting warm. We're loud, but I don't care. That's the way it's meant to be, and if Baz isn't groaning my name - my first name - then I'm not done. I can smell sex and cologne and magic on him. I want all of the skin on both of our bodies to be touching. I want it all.  
I grab his face and crash it into mine, and he rams into me just as hard, and I moan, and I'm close. I haven't done this before, but I can tell. Baz gets me close.  
I wrap my arms around his back and hug him into me further. He keeps his eyes on mine and we pulse back and forth together. My bed rattles and shakes like wind rambling through broken window-shutters.  
Merlin, Penny is going to _slit our throats_.

 

***

 

I thought _pulling your hair out_ was just an expression. It's not. I'm doing it right now. I pick up an abandoned plastic bowl from the kitchen floor and caress it as if it means the world to me. "You couldn't have at least _tried_ to make it not _obvious_?" I shake my head. This is so ridiculous. I begin to laugh, my hair bouncing around and my chest heaving. Simon looks at me like I'm a lunatic, his hands on his hips. 

Between hectic breaths I catch his eye again, and now at least he looks at me like I'm a lunatic he loves. I try to reflect the sentiment. He starts laughing, too, and pretty soon we're both on the ground, Simon clutching his stomach and me clutching the Tupperware. 

"You couldn't have at least _cleaned up_? Or been _quieter_? The _neighbors_ were complaining, Simon, I'm not alone," I manage to stutter out between maniacal giggles. He can be so air-headed, sometimes, I swear. 

He inhales shakily and laughs again. "How on earth do you _manage_?" He asks, only semi-sarcastically. 

I beam at him. "I've been through a lot worse than my best friends murdering their mattress while I'm trying to sleep, Simon." 

After a moment, his face drains of its color. "Can you _imagine_? If we needed a new mattress, after that? Oh, shit, I hope not..." He mumbles. 

I roll my eyes and throw the bowl at him.  "Just be glad I'm as patient, loving, and tolerating as I am."

He smiles at me, and shakes his head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	7. Shut Up and Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon drags Baz to a school dance, because they both need to loosen up and forget some things, even if it's only for an hour, and even if the inherent grossness within the concept of a school dance almost seems worse than the things they're supposed to be forgetting. But Baz obliges, because he can't say no to Simon's dreamy blue eyes (yes, he just used the word dreamy, that's how in love he is) and he wants whatever Simon wants now. That's what he's here for.  
> (So he goes, and it's just as inherently gross as the concept suggests, but it was worth a shot - especially considering how lovely Snow is after a few)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably very dumb. It was a brief feverdream I had during a taxi ride home, and I decided (whilst dizzy with exhaustion; I hope that excuse clears up any important questions you had, like why the fuck did you write this it's out of character and more cliche than The Notebook, for fuck's sake) to bring it to life. Anyhoo, I kind of like it. Does that mean it's actually good? Probably not. Read it anyway. Decide for yourself.

I feel weird just standing here, so I bob my head to the rhythm of the lyrics. They're unoriginal, but they're catchy ( _We were victims of the night. A chemical, physical kryptonite!_ ) and embarrassingly, I actually have to stop myself from shuffling my feet or (God forbid) jumping up and down with my arms tangled over my head like the underclassmen gits across the room. "Simon, Aleister above, stop dancing like that, you'll kill me."  
Snow smiles as easily as if it were pancake batter being poured across his face. He smiles with his eyes closed. "I suppose I'll see you in hell, then." He twirls and almost falls into me, but pops right back up, bouncing on the soles of his feet. My hands still stretch towards him, the palms upturned, ready to catch him, even though the danger has passed.  
"Looks like the refreshments were more rum than punch tonight," I say, letting my arms drop to my sides again. This - when he lets go, when he forgets - this is when he's all sparkling gold and regal blue and fair white marble. Like there's a dial hiding under his clothes somewhere, and when he's loose and happy it cranks all the way up; and everything about him - all the colors and the personality and the _everything_ \- is fully saturated. The same way you turn the volume up on an old stereo. Everything is just _magnified_.  
Everything, even my soft, stupid weakness for moments like these. Especially that.  
"I'd agree with you, but I'm much too busy having the time of my life. You should try it sometime." He spins again, the first time apparently having been only a practice round, not wobbling at all now. I tease him, but he can hold his alcohol well.  
I feel a blush crawling up the cords of muscle in my neck, and as much as I try to stop it it settles down on the apples of my cheeks, where it matches Simon's rosy flush of insobriety.  
_Because we match._  
I ignore the itchy feeling of it on my skin and concentrate on what I'll say next, or if I should say anything at all. My grandiosity is stripped away by these cocky strobe-lights and the disappointing familiarity of dubstep knocking on my skull.  
"Oi," Simon says. Wasted-ly. "Do you know why I took you here?"  
"I'd begun to wonder, yes," I mumble, my gaze caught on the physics of his cape riffling around his knees as the music softens and he sways his hips, back and forth.  
He grabs my hand. It's not tender or calculated (is anything with Snow predetermined? Or even predictable?) it's a mad swing for the joint of my wrist, an impulsive heist for a piece of me. I limp right into it. "It's because it's dark in here," he says, and I arch an eyebrow. "And I can see you better."  
It doesn't make sense. It's lulled through slagging senses and plump, drunken lips, but I understand exactly what he means. I can see Simon, really look at him, better in the dark than anywhere else. The lack of light means I don't have to calibrate exactly what will be in my grey eyes when they meet his, and I can keep our fingers ratted together - like now - without worrying about some devout fourth-year's jaw dropping to the floor.  
"There's easily accessible darkness elsewhere, Snow, not just at school socials. Haven't we grown out of this?" I ask, my lip curled in a smirk.  
"I know," Simon steps closer, feeling for my other hand and pressing his own sweaty palm into it like a gift. "I was only kidding. Clearly, I came _to dance_." The music gets louder. _She took my arm. I don't know how it happened. We took the floor and she saiiiiiiid!_ He shimmies for emphasis, right in time with the beginning of the chorus, and I groan dramatically. "Don't pretend you don't love it."  
And then, lip-sinking, his nose scrunching up into his thick eyebrows and practically headbanging even though the music crashing through the speakers is obnoxiously non-metallic: _Shut up and dance with me!_  
I shake my head, my black hair just barely swiveling around my ears. I can't stop grinning at him.  
I take the advice, because it _is_ dark, and Simon's hands are already in mine anyway, and anything that comes after that is icing on the cake. Meaning that I don't need to worry about it. So, I relax the hard lines in my forehead, and smooth down my hair, and oblige. I watch Snow move his limbs, graceful and languid, like his body is the ocean. Pure and blue and bright.  
I shut up, and I dance.


	8. When Can I Get You Alone?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> non-magical AU  
> Simon meets someone at the club. He doesn't believe in love at first sight, but he does believe in destiny, and when he looks at Baz he sees nothing but grey and fate and fire in his eyes. And he's drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

“Simon Snow, when can I get you alone?"

I only told it to him a few minutes ago, but already my name bleeds from his mouth like a prayer. He weaves a lock of my hair between his fingers and leans into me. He’s taller than me, but not by much. Only enough that he has to twist down to get our lips to touch. Enough that I have to balance on the toes of my boots to whisper in his ear.

“You think it’ll be that easy? That all you have to do is ask?” I can feel how thick and hot and slow the air between us is. I lick my lips. “I see the way you carry yourself. You might be used to getting what you want, but I’m not used to giving it. Not that easily.”

I finish and bring my head back to the dirty club wall, a poster of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” rustling behind me. I watch the fire in his eyes pop and roil and spit ashes into his irises. They were already remarkably grey before, but now the color is alive and swirling and wants to get out.

And it does. It escapes through his lips. I can tell, because when he speaks, his words are like coils of smoke. I wonder if he can see his eyes in mine. “I know,” he says, cocking his head. “I like a challenge.”

He presses something into my palm, sweaty from closeness, and saunters away. He doesn’t look back, and for a second I think I’ve lost him. That I should chase after him and explain, red-faced, that I was only playing hard to get, and plead with him that he can have me alone now – forever – whenever he wants –

I open my hand.

It’s a napkin with his telephone number scrawled on to it, in perfect loopy handwriting.

I sigh in relief, push my hair back, and watch him walk away. I told him I’d make it hard for him. I pretended like I could read him. I hope I see him again. I want to learn what his hair feels like underneath my hands. I want him to tell me wide-eyed and with passion between his lips the things he’s in love with – is he a footballer? An avid reader? How does he take his tea? I want to see him in jeans again. Can I make him smile? Can I kiss him?

_Basil Pitch, how would you feel if I kissed you?_

I want to _see him_ again.


	9. Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys are soft and warm and content.  
> (Simon's perspective)

“Tell me, Simon,” Baz murmurs into my neck. “Tell me I don’t have to be me, tell me I’m someone else, something else, anything else.”

I hold him so close my hips metamorphose to fit the warm shape of his thighs pressed into me. “Merlin,” I say. I’m no good with words. “Merlin, okay. Okay, Baz, you’re heroin. One fix, and I’m so stuck on you I can feel myself slipping. You’re the stars in the sky, bright and blinking and so fucking strong. I almost can’t look at you, you’re so beautiful. You’re magic, and not just in the way you hold fire in your hands and levitate stuff and reheat tea, but in the way that it matters, like how there’s always magic bubbling up my throat and blurring my vision as long as you’re touching me.” I shudder and Baz’s breath is alive and hot on my hairline. His body is achingly still, as if he’s trying hard not to move. I don’t blame him – I could die here. “You’re comfort and safety and home. You’re a good book, a streetlight in the rain, looking out a bus window…”

Baz laughs into my forehead, and the soft sincerity of it echoes around my skull. I push my fingers up the back of his shirt. “You’re a fucking cliché, Snow,” he says. “What’s next, a coffeeshop AU?”

“Shut up,” I bury my face in his collar and inhale. I was right; he’s a drug. He’s fucking cocaine. “You’re gorgeous. And powerful, and all sex and smarts like a goddamn fox, all on your own. And you’re mine. And that’s the best part.”

He rocks forward, pushing us both horizontal onto the bed, laughing all the way. I love that motherfucking sound, him laughing.

And then there’s silence, or something close to it – just the white noise of us breathing together and the leisurely scrape of skin on skin. And Baz, spinning my name on his tongue like cotton candy, making me glow.

“Simon,” he whispers.

“I know.” I kiss the words into his mouth. “You’re everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that wasn't too cliche in itself!! Not to use excuses, but I just watched Shakespeare in Love, and holy bejeezus am I inspired. Gwyneth Paltrow is my prince charming, tbh. And there's nothing quite like the bard to get the writing gears cranking!  
> Remember to love yourselves first, and carry on :,)

**Author's Note:**

> So, there's that :-) As always, if you have any commentary at all, I'd absolutely love to hear from you! More coming soon.


End file.
